


Grey Trees

by PersonyPepper



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Blood, Happy Ending, Healing, Hurt Jaskier | Dandelion, Jaskier | Dandelion Loves Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Jaskier | Dandelion Whump, M/M, Metaphors, Near Death Experiences, Not Really Character Death, Pining Jaskier | Dandelion, Post-Episode: S01E06 Rare Species, as in i fucked up the timeline lmao
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-07
Updated: 2021-03-07
Packaged: 2021-03-13 23:14:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,843
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29908533
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PersonyPepper/pseuds/PersonyPepper
Summary: Jaskier grimaces as he turns over; misery has never looked pretty on him, and the grime streaked across his face is likely doing him no favors. Can’t even die pretty in this day and age, what a crime, he smiles. A twig digs into the small of his back; can’t die comfortably, either, but it seems that such is the life of a traveling bard.Jaskier clutches at his bleeding wound as he settles in the clearing. He uses his last moments to reflect on how he got here.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii & Jaskier | Dandelion & Yennefer z Vengerbergu, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 9
Kudos: 136
Collections: The Witcher Flash Fiction Challenge #017





	Grey Trees

**Author's Note:**

> Just a quick note: [Yoshino Cherry Trees (click for more info)](https://www.thisoldhouse.com/gardening/21333894/yoshino-cherry-trees) go from green to yellow to orange to red from spring through winter in that order. I used the tree's cycles to draw the comparison between Geralt and Jaskier’s relationships, between beginnings, beginnings of the end, and endings.
> 
> Also, the blossoms smell slightly almond-y, and the trees bloom in the spring. The tree produces berries too, but they're too bitter for a human to eat. Birds enjoy them though :)
> 
> Title inspired by [Grey Leaves by Robert Hallow and The Holy Men.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XD2WW_hqEGo)
> 
> I recommend listening to it as you read this, it's soothing, gentle, and wonderful. Either way, have fun :)

His wound bleeds, blood seeping through his fingers and down his hand to soak into the sleeve of his doublet. His lute lays beside him, intact and as beautiful as the day he’d gotten her; he’s in a worse state, no state worth for a bard at least. Muddied silks cling to his ankles as he falls and falls till there’s dry, dying grass in his face. Jaskier grimaces as he turns over; misery has never looked pretty on him, and the grime streaked across his face is likely doing him no favors. Can’t even die pretty in this day and age, what a crime, he smiles. A twig digs into the small of his back; can’t die comfortably, either, but it seems that such is the life of a traveling bard.

It won’t be long till some creature or another finds him; it’s a miracle that he's managed to stumble into this clearing at all. It'd probably been the same heretic that’d slit Sir Eyck of Denesle’s very throat, always out to get a bastard when he’s down. Jaskier sighs, clutches the knife wound on his chest tighter, and listens to the birds sing.

_The tavern floor creaks as he walks into the bustling establishment, head held high. Decked in the fanciest of cloth he could scrounge up payment for and hair tousled artfully, he stands out like a sore thumb against the dull colors of the farmer folk that live here. They look tired, exhausted from early mornings and late nights of hard work; Jaskier thinks it’s the perfect time to bring in a little cheer. He approaches the tavern-keeper with his lute strap in his hands and a bright grin on his face. Even the dismissal is a half-assed, the tavern-keeper’s eyes barely meeting his. Jaskier takes it as a_ do whatever _. It’s a good enough yes for him._

_He makes his way to a corner of the tavern and settles himself to stand atop a table in a makeshift stage. Jaskier’s first song, his debut as an artist and bard, if you will. Tree leaves rustle outside, bright green brushing against windows in the breeze as if they’re ready to sing along with him. The scent of their flowers spurs him on, delicate buds dancing along to the song on the tip of his tongue. Jaskier parts his lips for the first song. He forgoes an introduction in excitement._

_Jaskier’s clothes cling uncomfortably to him, ale-soaked and soup-splattered. He sighs as he holds his lute out rather than sling it across his back; he’d had high hopes for making a couple coins and, more importantly, being able to perform to a receptive audience. In hindsight, perhaps they were too high. The tavern has long since returned to its usual chatter, Jaskier’s performance long forgotten. Yet, he can feel eyes on him._

_They're gold and they seemingly glow in the dull light of the tavern; the man doesn't look away when Jaskier’s eyes meet his. The pale skin around them is pinched, as if troubled, and Jaskier’s drawn to them like birds to bitter blossom berry._

_“I love the way you just,” he waves his hand, considerably more excited than the tavern-keeper had waved at him, “sit in the corner and brood.”_

_Geralt of Rivia, the Butcher of Blaviken, says nothing in return._

Every great story had an ending. Happily ever after or otherwise; Jaskier supposes he just drew the short stick. He sighs a long breath, and doesn’t wince at the pain the movement brings. His doublet’s red so he's got no worry about blood-stained clothing, but hopefully someone’ll pretty him up before the funeral. If he’s found at all.

_If life could give me one blessing…_

He likely won’t be discovered; he’s trudged to the middle of nowhere to die. It’s not like he has anyone that would attend his funeral anyway.

_It would be to get_ you _off of my hands._

Tall trees surround him, their branches like cracks in the sky as he stares up at them. Their bark is smooth and dull grey. 

_Jaskier had always fallen too fast. By the end of summer, he proclaims himself bewitched, enchanted by the witcher. By the strong, broody witcher with a gentle, soft heart. He’s always been a poet, a romantic, and it comes as no surprise how much quicker his heart beats around Geralt, how his face heats and his heart melts in quiet moments around fires. Jaskier finishes the last buttons on his doublet and smooths down the gold silk in front of the faded mirror._

_Geralt’s expression is stony and grim as he stares down at his clothing. Perhaps he should leave Geralt be tonight, let him rest. “I look like a sad silk trader,” the witcher grunts miserably. Jaskier shifts through his bag for his chamomile and lavender scented oil, hand nudging against their thin coin pouch; they’ll go without food if they don’t attend. No choice in the matter, then._

_Jaskier rolls his eyes. “You, good witcher, look incredibly fashionable. Now,” he turns from the mirror to face his friend, “I know it’s a foreign concept, but you look good in clothes that haven’t once been Kikimore vomit.”_

_The witcher grunts. He’s going to fit right in with the uptight nobles and royals invited to the Cintran betrothal feast, Jaskier’s sure._

_“Fine, you’re right,” Jaskier flicks his hands as he talks before adjusting his lute on his shoulder, “you look good in Kikimore-vomit-clothes too, but this is an upgrade, you have to admit.” He receives no reply to that, and smiles at his friend. “Ready?”_

_The witcher follows him without a sound._

_The feast progresses as feasts do; alcohol, vomit, and testosterone stinking up the too-loud, too-political place. Geralt acquires a child after the ceiling collapses with a roar of Pavetta’s magic._

_That event is more norm-divergent for betrothal feasts and hindsight is quickly becoming a bitch in Jaskier's life._

_Through the decimated roof, Jaskier notices cloudless stars shine and green leaves beginning to grow yellow._

Exhaustion seeps into him quicker than the cold and he wants nothing more than to sleep. But he’s got some time left, an hour or so more to watch the clouds and wallow in his thoughts. It’s been too long since Jaskier had a moment of quiet to himself; it takes him dying to get him to shut up. His hand is lax in its pressure over the wound, doing little else than resting against his skin. It should sting; he can’t feel it, not as drying blood tugs at his skin, not as it drips onto the ground below him and into the muck.

He’d call dying alone ironic if it wasn’t so poetic. A lifetime dedicated to accompanying a man who didn’t want him, a career dedicated to bringing people together and he doesn’t have a soul to pray for him. 

Dry leaves rustle on above him and Jaskier decides that both quiet moments and praying are incredibly overrated.

_Yennefer of Vengerberg. Jaskier admires her. Powerful and itching for more, she’s a contradiction of beauty and vengeance. She is drama, hope, and rightful rage; she’s a song waiting to be sung. In another life, perhaps, if he wasn’t so enamored with one Geralt of Rivia, he might have indeed buttered that biscuit if she’d wanted him to. But for now, there’s blood dripping down Jaskier’s lips and terror in his chest and Geralt’s going back into that fucking building._

_He doesn’t listen. Geralt of Rivia, monster hunter and idiot extraordinaire has a heart too big and a brain too small. Jaskier kneels as he listens to the roof give, smuts billowing up to dust the deep orange leaves of the trees. He can’t even rush in and save him; Jaskier knows too little too late when he sees it. Why the fuck hadn’t he listened. A bitter smile pulls into his face. He can’t hear a sound from the old building, but he knows Geralt would’ve died without a single fucking complaint as long as he’d done so heroically._

_Gravel digs into Jaskier’s knees. What’s he supposed to do now._

_It wasn’t supposed to go this way._

_“He always did say I had the nicest singing voice.” Maybe this had been a tale of death, Destiny, heroics and heartbreak after all. The heartbreak is all his. Death, Destiny, and Heroics lays amongst the rubble of a magic-shattered house. Chireadan pulls him up by the collar despite his half-uttered, half-mumbled protests and guides him to the cracked mirror on the side of the house._

_Relief nearly makes his knees buckle._

_They’re alive._

_He’s alive._

He’s dying. Death is close, he can taste it. Or perhaps, that’s the blood that pools in the back of his throat. He coughs it up, simply because it’s fucking dreadful having a throat full of blood; it’s happened to him twice and maybe this time it’ll actually have the decency to kill him.

Jaskier has had a full life; he went from running away from nobility and responsibilities to deciding to change idiotic racial injustice, just like a proper bard. He’d fallen in love, broken some hearts, and had knifed a couple shitheads along the way. What more can a humble bard ask for? Jaskier’s content. And if he hasn’t even held the hand of the man he loves, so what? And if that same man had sent him away so cruelly atop a shitty mountain after a shitty day, well, it truly does not matter.

His vision is fading, and that sleep he’s been craving is so wonderfully close. His breath comes out in wheezes; he relaxes. Jaskier had never thought he’d be ready for death, but here he lays, waiting. Red leaves flutter down with the breeze, at the end of their cycle as he is at the end of his.

Jaskier closes his eyes; almond scented flowers tickle at his nose.

He dreams of green leaves.

_"Jaskier?" The bard lays amongst twig, grass, and dirt, barely breathing but breathing still. Geralt kneels, blood and mud slick against his leathers. Jaskier._

_"Jaskier!"_

_He doesn't wake, and Yennefer's magic reeks. Blue eyes take too long to open. Too long. Almost too late._

_"Geralt?" The bard's weak voice cracks, and his gaze is unfocused and confused as it settles on Geralt's face._

_"Jaskier." Relief nearly makes his knees buckle._

It's nearing spring by the time Jaskier is well enough to hold his lute without dropping it. Apologies are asked and forgiveness is given after lengthy nights and painful arguments. The three of them finally rest. Jaskier relishes in the soft of the picnic blanket underneath him and the warmth of Geralt laying against his chest. Yennefer rests beside them, basking in the first warmth of the season. Her hand is intertwined in Jaskier's and her other holds a book. The bard watches the sky in silence, blue cracked by the branches of the smooth-barked trees he has no name for.

The beginnings of green leaves peek through the smooth wood. 

**Author's Note:**

> Jaskier is _if I had a nickel for every time I had blood in my throat, I'd have two nickels... which isn't a lot but it's weird that it happened twice_ lmaooo.


End file.
